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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675798">Frog in the Throat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous'>Ludicrous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:08:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,301</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg had come back early at the insistence of Sally and stubbornly worked his way through paperwork.</p><p>Now that Mycroft was back, he could take care of his partner before he collapsed. And what would be more relaxing than listening to Jules Verne?</p><p>(Inspired by a plot bunny from Paia_Loves_Pie)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Frog in the Throat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Greg squinted at the paper in his hands. The words in front of him blurred together. Greg rubbed at his eyes and suppressed a sigh. It came out as a cough.  </p><p>Bringing work home had seemed like a good idea earlier. Sally had been practically begging him to leave. She had insisted upon him taking some rest. Greg had assured her he would be perfectly capable of resting on his sofa while finishing his paperwork.</p><p>Now he was not so sure.</p><p>Since six he had barely progressed. Every time he caught sight of the name of the murderer, he shuddered. He had saved the man's confession for last in his pile. He was now struggling through it, trying not to read the words he was writing.</p><p>As Greg applied his pen to the paper, he caught the sound of a key being fitted in the lock. A smile appeared on his face before he took in the chaos of the living room.</p><p>Cups of cold coffee littered the coffee table in front of him. Greg's fingers were dotted with blue. Cushions had been pushed to the ground. Piles of papers were strewn across the room; some of them had ended up under the couch.</p><p>"Hey." Greg twisted around with a sheepish smile. The room spun for a second before his eyes could focus on Mycroft. "Sorry for the mess."</p><p>"Did an earthquake visit the flat while I was gone?" Mycroft was the perfect rendition of a severe man frowning, yet his eyes were sparkling. "Did bringing chaos and destruction to our living room help you with your work, at least?"</p><p>Greg huffed. "Not at all. Even your miraculous coffee didn't help."</p><p>Mycroft approached the couch and stole a gentle kiss from Greg's lips. Greg let his head rest against the top of the couch, his chest gently warming with the joy of having Mycroft near. </p><p>He realized he could very well fall asleep here. </p><p>His head jerked back up; it felt like it weighed about three stones. Greg fought the urge to collapse back against the couch.</p><p>Mycroft walked around the couch, gracefully avoiding collision with the piles of paperwork littering the floor. Greg watched him out of the corner of his eye. He tried to stop picturing a cat with its tail high in the air, sniffing the air with distaste.</p><p>"I'll clean it up once I've..." Greg waved a hand in the air. "finished this."</p><p>Mycroft tutted and rested a hand against Greg's forehead.</p><p>"Endless cups of coffee won't solve a headache, Gregory."</p><p>"Even if it's your magical coffee that tastes like Heaven itself?" Greg grinned sleepily at Mycroft, tilting his head so Mycroft's hand fell against his feverish skin.</p><p>"Even then," Mycroft murmured.</p><p>Greg let his eyes fall shut of their own accord. He could hear noises coming from around him but it felt like too much of an effort to open his eyes. If it was an assassin, Greg had no doubt Mycroft would kill them. <em>Perhaps he would even use his umbrella</em>, Greg thought with a smile.</p><p>Greg's fingers slowly eased off his pen; it fell to the floor with a clatter. Greg sat up, aware of the slight crick in his neck. He must have fallen asleep; it had felt as short as a blink.</p><p>The lights had been dimmed, the brightness no longer piercing Greg’s eyes.</p><p>The living room was pristine; the coffee table cleared of everything apart from a steaming cup of tea. Next to it were two pills and a glass of water.</p><p>Greg turned his eyes to Mycroft, who was standing near the kitchen door. His shoulders were high and his eyes were fixed on the black screen of the tv.</p><p>"I did not disturb the order you had put the files in if that- worries you. I merely-"</p><p>"C'me here, you." Greg turned grabby hands towards Mycroft, widening his eyes.</p><p>Mycroft huffed but he stepped forward without complaint. After a second his body turned pliant and he melted into Greg's arms. Greg ran a warm palm up and down his back, humming softly.</p><p>"You came back late and you still had to clean up after me." Greg pressed a kiss behind Mycroft's ear. "'M sorry."</p><p>"You had a fever, Gregory. Still do, in fact. It is only natural that I should care for you when you're sick."</p><p>"Not sick," Greg protested weakly. His words came out as a mumble against Mycroft’s shoulder but Greg was too tired to move.</p><p>"You are aware that you are acting like Sherlock?" In Mycroft's speech, that meant acting like a child. Greg admitted that was almost one and the same.</p><p>"I look cuter, though." Greg kissed Mycroft's nose which wrinkled under his lips.</p><p>"You do," Mycroft admitted in a low tone. "Now drink your tea and take your pills. I'll fetch you a damp cloth to cover your eyes."</p><p>When Mycroft came back, he had in one hand the cloth and in the other a red book. Greg couldn't remember seeing it before.</p><p>"Where did this come from?" He asked as he settled against Mycroft's chest, the cloth against his eyes.</p><p>"My study," Mycroft answered. Greg could hear the soft sound of Mycroft running his fingers against the spine of the book.</p><p>"You mean, it's one of those very expensive ones Rosie is not allowed to touch?" Greg stretched a bit, his hair tickling Mycroft's cheek.</p><p>"It holds more value than the ones from the library." Mycroft's sigh ruffled Greg's hair. "I used to read it to Sherlock."</p><p>"Did you?" Greg smiled, his mind conjuring an image of a teenage Mycroft sitting in a big armchair, a young Sherlock on his lap.</p><p>Mycroft hummed. "I thought, perhaps, this would prove a good distraction from your work."</p><p>Greg felt tension stiffening his back at the thought of work - piles of papers he had abandoned halfway through. A hand ran through his hair, bringing him back to the present. He caught it and brought it to his stomach. Their fingers tangled together a moment before Mycroft’s fingers trailed away.</p><p>"Have you read Jules Verne before?" Mycroft’s voice had lowered to a gentle whisper.</p><p>"I erm-" Greg resisted the urge to squirm, remembering his French middle school. "We were supposed to but I- I didn't."</p><p>"It will be easier for you to fall asleep then." Mycroft didn't sound offended but rather fond. Greg felt a feeble pressure on his hair where Mycroft’s lips rested, as light as a feather. "<em>Chapitre un, dans lequel Phileas Fogg et Passe</em>-"</p><p>Mycroft's voice went up and down, softer than how he usually talked. It felt like being rocked, a French lullaby. Old memories came back to his mind; of his mother singing softly as she fitted the blanket under his chin.</p><p>Mycroft's fingers trailed through Greg’s hair. They rubbed Greg's scalp, his temples, his neck in time with his voice. Greg let out a sigh of contentment, feeling his mind settle. The words washed over him like waves over the sand. He forgot them as soon as he heard them. </p><p>Greg smiled as he heard Mycroft’s voice change, morphing to adjust to the different characters. A slight accent morphed his words, hardening consonants. At other times, his voice gained a posh quality, words going high and low. </p><p>"-<em>qu'un retard imprévu peut vous faire perdre!</em>" Mycroft lowered his voice, his stomach tensing under Greg's back. "<em>L'imprévu n'existe pas.</em>"</p><p>"You make a very good Phileas Fogg impression," Greg mumbled.</p><p>"I've been told the resemblance is striking."</p><p>Mycroft's words came from far away, his voice echoing in Greg's mind, ricocheting on the corners. It felt like hearing him from underwater, from space.</p><p>Phileas had not even left London that Greg had already slipped into adventures of his own, dreams of dragons and red-haired princes.</p>
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